Labryinth of Lies
by TheRandomScribbler
Summary: *Sequel to Shatterpoint* With Legolas reigning as the cold-hearted King of Mirkwood and Aragorn an exiled refugee, the opportunity seems prime for another strike at the Ranger, this time involving his beloved adopted family...
1. The Calm Before the Storm

**-**

**'Labyrinth of Lies'**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Pity.**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: The usual.**

**Notes: Well, here we are. The sequel to 'Shatterpoint'. It's highly recommended that you read this story first. It will probably be pretty tricky to read this one if you haven't. Go on: it's only 13 chapters. **

**I am dedicating this chapter to StrangertotheWorld and to sylphxpression, both of whom bugged me relentlessly to write this promptly! Thank you for your gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) nagging! Definitely what I needed. :-)**

**Enjoy!**

**-**

Lord Elrond Peredhil was seated at his elaborately decorated desk, face was a deceitful mask of calm beneath which a river of emotion raged. He sat perfectly still, not a single

nerve twitching or an eye blinking. A slip of parchment rested in his long fingers, containing the source of the emotional extremes Elrond currently contained.

A shadow fell over his contemplative form. Still, he did not stir, though he sensed the identity of the intruder immediately and knew it to be his kin.

"Father?"

The younger. Elrond, though quite conscious of the other's presence and greeting, deigned not to reply and remained silent and tranquil.

Elrohir, sensing his father's trance-like state and deeming caution the appropriate path, reverently approached the desk until he was just a few inches from Elrond's shoulder. The elder elf could easily see his son in his peripheral vision. Elrohir offered a few more seconds on non-speech before again attempting to break the silence.

"Father?" he asked, more softly, and in a tone implying his intentions to comply should Elrond request solitude.

Now Elrond did choose to acknowledge his son.

He turned slightly, his partial exposure offering adequate attention to the younger being seeking it.

"Elrohir."

He spoke gravely, but not unkindly.

Elrohir paused, looking as though he was choosing his words carefully.

"I came to seek your opinion on a simple matter of pears or apples on the new set of dishes set to be ordered shortly," Elrohir began respectfully, and slowly. "However, now that I have seen you it seems apparent that the present is not the appropriate time for such trivialities. May I ask what troubles you?"

For a long moment, Elrond did not reply. Elrohir might have wondered if his father had even heard him, but he knew that Elrond always thought things through before deciding on an answer.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Neither."

Elrohir's brow crinkled with confusion

_He desires neither fruit, or he does not want __**any**__ fruit __**and**__ there is nothing disturbing him?_

"I beg pardon, Father? Neither?"

Elrond turned more fully to his son, though his face remained cast downward. A small smile alighted upon his face.

"We shall have cherries."

_Oh. It __**was**__ the fruit. But…cherries make him…sick…why…?_

"Cherries? But Father, I thought you hated—"

"They are Estel's favorite."

Elrond's mind was definitely somewhere else. He did not appear quite 'all there' to Elrohir.

The younger elf cleared his throat uncomfortably and shifted from foot to foot.

"Pardon for saying so, but…well…Estel has not been home in years and it is unlikely that his opinion is strong on a matter involving our stoneware—"

"No, Elrohir." Elrond looked all the way up at his son, and a wide, genuine smile grew on his face. He stood, placed his hands on Elrohir's shoulders, and tilted his head downward so it rested on Elrohir's. The latter just remained still, not really sure what his father was doing but supposing there must be a reason.

"Oh, Elrohir." Elrond squeezed his son's shoulders and threw his head back in a gust of hearty laughter, thoroughly startling Elrohir.

"Father?" the elf asked uncertainly, eyeing the Peredhil with a mixture of 'I believe you are insane' and 'perhaps it was the wine'. "Is everything quite all right?"

"Oh, better, my son," Elrond murmured, relieved smile never leaving his face. He looked Elrohir in the eye, and the latter observed the keen sparkle in his father's eyes, one that had not been seen in a long while, not since…

"Father?" he asked, barely daring to hope.

"Yes_, _Elrohir, _finally…_Estel is coming home!"

-

Legolas, King of Mirkwood, stood with a snarl, crumpled the parchment into a thick ball and hurled it against the wall with all his might, followed shortly by an inkwell. The guard standing outside did not flinch as the door was flung open, ricocheting off the wall and back into place again.

"Aráto!" the young king snarled. He did not cease his stalking entry towards his strategy room as the head of guards materialized apparently out of thin air and quite calmly achieved and maintained the brisk pace of the other elf, minus the cold fury.

"Your Majesty?" he acknowledged quietly. They reached their destination room, which contained tables upon which charts and other strategic means lay. Legolas did not deign to reply until they had entered and shut the door. At this point he whirled on his heel and shouted in Aráto's face, more furious than Aráto had seen him in a while. And that was saying something, as Legolas was frequently in sour moods and was generally prone to fly into rages at the drop of a hat as of late.

"The bastard human survived!"

Charts and maps flew off the table in a whoosh of parchment as Legolas swept them off, taking little care not to trod on them as he knocked whole tables over in his rage.

"Sire," Aráto said a little loudly. He stood rigid, eyes narrowed and hands clasped behind his back to avoid seeming disrespectful. But really, King Legolas was acting like a spoiled child. Aráto dared not say it, though.

Legolas finally calmed down.

He stood in a corner of the room surveying his chaos with little emotion.

"He survived the fall," he repeated quite calmly to Aráto's questioning look. "The two-faced, lying murderer of my father did not die. Who? Who could survive? None but the _Dunedán_." He spat the title as a curse. "Of course. _He_ lives. He who slew Mirkwood's king is alive and free to dominate and destroy as he pleases."

He leaned on one of the heavy tables, shoulders hunched in thought, eyes dark with anger. A wicked, scheming look appeared on his face.

"It matters not," he said shortly. His voice grew dangerously light, almost nonchalant, though of course it could not be so.

"This human shall deem his birth a mistake in the end," he declared. He straightened. The cold look returned to his eyes and posture.

"My scouts send word that he journeys to Imladris," Legolas said with almost a sneer. His eyes rested lightly on Aráto and the guard was saddened to see the cold cruelty now residing in them.

"You will send a message to Lord Elrond," he ordered, cold exactness punctuating every syllable. "Aragorn, claimed Elrondion, shall retain no sanctuary within Imladris on pains of war."

Aráto's eyebrows nearly rose. "War, Sire? Surely you exaggerate, the threat of war is very dire and grave and ought not be made lightly—"

"And if," Legolas continued, voice rising to drown out Aráto's protests. "If Aragorn chooses to set foot within Imladris, Lord Elrond is to immediately place him under arrest and hand him over into my custody for crimes against the Crown of Mirkwood."

He glared coolly at Aráto, daring him to disagree, the sparks practically flying from his eyes.

"Lord Elrond claims his relation to the human is as a son," Aráto said carefully, neutrally. "I am not quite so sure he will so readily give him up—"

"Elven law clearly states that if a crime has been committed against an elf, the other elven domains are legally and morally obligated to hold that being prisoner until such a time where the homeland of the offensive party can contain him. Furthermore, they are forbidden from providing sanctuary and risk open war should they choose to do so." Legolas's eyes were pools of melted metal, looking cool yet extremely heated and dangerous.

"Lord Elrond is a wise and ancient elf," Legolas said coolly. "I am quite certain he will see my point of view."

The young elf king glared evenly and held up a firm hand as Aráto made to intervene.

"Send the message at once," Legolas ordered coldly, before turning his back on the guard and striding out of the roon.

-

Aragorn lay on his back, absolutely still. A warm blanket covered him as a fire flickered feebly in a corner of the room. His stomach was full and settled. A contented, tired sigh escaped his lips, barely audible. A tiny smile alighted upon his lips.

Though on the outside he looked calm and refreshed—and at the moment, he was—his heart was still aching from the gut-wrenching pain and confusion he felt over what had recently happened.

Why did Legolas believe himself betrayed? Aragorn had done nothing but search relentlessly. And surely the elf-prince could not actually believe the Dunedán had slewn his father. This was absolutely unbelievable; almost even ridiculous. And yet the cold, stony rage in the elf's eyes as he drew a knife to the throat of the Ranger told Aragorn everything he needed to know: reasonable or not, Legolas hated his guts and it was in Aragorn's best interest to steer clear of him for a while.

But of course, Aragorn could not leave him alone forever. Being the irritatingly persistent friend that he was, he could not simply allow their friendship to be decimated because of what Aragorn deemed a misunderstanding. Aragorn would leave him be to mourn his father for a time, then go to pay his respects to the late king and try to restore their friendship and work out the misunderstanding.

At the time, however, Aragorn hurt. His heart was weary. After all, the death of King Thranduil had shaken him to the core. And now Legolas shunned him. In the most bizarre turn of events, he had lost an elf he had highly respected, and had lost his closest friend. This could only be healed through time.

Time, and, perhaps, a very good healer.

The small smile grew bigger and a little flurry of excitement shot up into his stomach.

There was only one place he could possibly hope to find peace now, and that was where he was headed.

Rivendell.

The place where his family, a clan of elves called Peredhil, resided. A tranquil place, where perhaps Lord Elrond, whom he called Father, could offer hope and healing.

It was the one place he knew that no matter what, he would always be loved and welcomed back with open arms. His family would bring no judgement, only love and help.

It had been years, and he couldn't wait to go back.

He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the warm fingers of sleep drifting over him.

_A long hiatus in Rivendell, with my father and brothers….this is precisely what I need right now. Wonderful…_

It was his last thought before he fell solidly asleep.

If only he could have known what the future really had in store for him, and that his visions of peaceful waterfalls and games with his brothers were lies.

But Aragorn slept on.

-

**Yeeeesh, short, I know. Sorry. The next chapters will be longer. Please review, my little friendlies!**

**TRS**

**-**


	2. Genesis

**-**

**2**

**-**

The mood was foul and the air sinister as King Legolas approached the desk at which Aráto sat, carefully scripting the prescribed message to Rivendell.

"State your progress."

Legolas's voice was flat and left no room for argument.

Aráto looked up briefly to acknowledge his liege's presence respectfully, then dipped his head to proceed with the task at hand.

"I am nearly finished, my lord," he murmured. Legolas heard the disapproval in his trusted guard's voice and ignored it.

"Excellent." Legolas's eyes glittered dangerously. "Soon all things will be set right."

He turned silently and left Aráto to his scribe-work.

-

**One week later**

-

Lord Elrond could not believe his eyes. He read the message from Mirkwood a fourth time, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach.

"This is preposterous. Absolutely preposterous," he uttered aloud, shocked and dazed.

The parchment fluttered to the floor as his fingers slackened and let it slip through their grip.

Never would he have expected this. Not in three hundred Ages could he, even with his far-reaching wisdom and foresight, could the Lord of Rivendell have predicted this.

"Lord Elrond." The soft yet urgent voice persuaded him from his thoughts and he turned to observe Lord Glorfindel standing still in the doorway. Worry shaded the face of the noble Eldar as he awaited Elrond's invitation to join him.

"Glorfindel." The name left Elrond's lips as an exhausted sigh. He beckoned Glorfindel wearily into the room. The Balrog slayer acquiesced in silence, noting the sudden darkness which seemed to have pervaded the domed room.

"What troubles you, my lord?" he asked in a low tone, taking a seat opposite Elrond, his sharp eyes wandering the length of the room and observing the fallen letter, Elrond's posture and the sudden extinguishment of the other elf's light heart.

"It's utterly inconcievable."

Elrond pointed mechanically to the fallen parchment and Glorfindel, eyes narrowed, stooped to pick it up.

"Madness."

Elrond's mind did not seem to be with Glorfindel at all, nor even in the same room. His thoughts were clearly distressed and in the possession of some foreign messenger of anguish.

Glorfindel read the letter swiftly. It first, all seemed to be well; a letter from Mirkwood was not really uncommon, after all. Then he got to the body of it and his face drained of color as his heart dropped into his stomach.

"Oh, Valar."

His voice came out as a weak whisper. He looked at Elrond, whose hand was wrapped tightly around his forehead, eyes squeezed shut like he was in some terrible pain.

"My lord…?"

He attempted, begging some explanation.

Elrond looked up, and his eyes burned so furiously that Glorfindel nearly took a step back.

"Madness!" the elf lord roared, and Glorfindel really did start backward. Elrond never lost his temper, and the theory was that if he ever did, Mount Doom was liable to explode on cue. It was a theory Glorfindel had hoped never would be tested, but it appeared that the moment may have come.

Elrond stood, snatched the letter from Glorfindel's limp hand, and dashed it into the fireplace. The flames crackled higher for just a few seconds before resuming their regular height, giving no indication that such a letter had ever even existed.

Elrond stalked through his home, a glorious blaze of fury as he dashed books from their shelves and vases to the floor. Glorfindel followed behind, eyes troubled and heart worried.

"Lord Elrond."

Glorfindel strode more quickly than before and caught up to the raging elf lord, catching his arm. Like a snake Elrond whipped around and caught Glorfindel by the shoulders, shaking him. His eyes were not quite sane and Glorfindel remained stock-still, staring at the other quite coolly.

"Do you not understand? This heinous crime of which they have accused my son—murdering the King of Mirkwood—what in Mandos's Halls can Legolas be thinking?"

His shouts echoed throughout the halls and more than one sharp-eyed servant paused to observe the exchange. A harsh glare from Glorfindel sent each quickly on his way, however, until they were no longer interrupted.

After a moment, Elrond dropped his eyes and his grasp from Glorfindel and turned away, voice losing its harsh anger and instead becoming wrought with distressed confusion.

"It's a mistake. It must be."

His voice was shaky and he moved unsteadily to sink into a thick convenient chair, hands covering his face. Glorfindel automatically moved to be next to him, placing a comforting hand on his liege's shoulder.

After a moment Elrond looked up at Glorfindel, face unreadable.

"Do you not believe the message sent in ignorance or error?" he demanded, suddenly harsh again.

"Have you any reason to suspect otherwise?" Glorfindel asked swiftly, keen to possess all known information before offering his opinion.

"Of course not," Elrond snapped, eyes narrowing. Glorfindel gave a slight respectful bow, indicating he had meant no treachery.

"Then of course I am prepared to defend Estel's innocence," he answered simply.

Elrond nodded, seeming suddenly relieved.

"The message was sent in error," he said firmly. "Legolas still grieves the death of his father and one night consumed too much alcohol. After all, he and Estel are the most loyal of friends. On the night he simply drank too much and made a grave error in judgement."

"An educated assessment," Glorfindel agreed.

"Please ask that a message be sent to Mirkwood in response. Inform King Legolas that Estel bears no ill will toward him or his deceased father, and that we are prepared to forgive the error."

Elrond trailed off, looking distant. "The Heir of Isildur is Estel…his foolishness would know no boundaries if he were ever to cross Mirkwood. Similar foolishness seems to have overtaken Legolas for a night, for the thought of this perceived treachery to even enter his mind…"

Glorfindel said nothing, but left to deliver the message.

Elrond was left alone with his thoughts.

-

If one were to state that Legolas's disposition was not entirely pleasant upon reception of Rivendell's response, one would be gravely understating the situation.

The newly-crowned and not-quite-sane King of Mirkwood flew into an utter rage when his eyes read the words of Elrond Peredhil.

"He dares mock me?" the young elf screamed. He shredded the letter with his drawn twin blades, which he then proceeded to embed into the backs of two unfortunate wooden statues resting at the entrance to the throne room.

"Aráto!" he shouted, seething, eyes full of madness.

The guard appeared almost as with magic, so swift was his arrival.

He did not even get a chance to acknowledge his liege before said monarch began to bark out orders.

"Set an elf running to Rivendell with a message of war this very day. Imprison Elrond's messenger. But offer one more chance for their redemption: if they choose to side with us, we will release their youth and remain at peace. If not…" Legolas gave a low, nasty laugh. "Their messenger will be slain and our armies shall advance."

Aráto fought to keep his face free of the disgust he felt at the edict. He barely managed to mutter, "Yes, Sire," before bowing jerkily and beating a swift retreat.

He shut the door, leaned against it and sighed, heart weary.

For the first time, he was beginning to truly doubt his liege's mental sanity.

Legolas's thirst for revenge was sickening and disturbing; though of course many an elven brother had been avenged in the past, actions provoked by rages such as this one had nearly crushed Mirkwood in the past.

Aráto did not utter a sound as he prepared to follow his liege's orders.

-

Elrond awoke to find both of his sons gone. An elegantly scripted note pinned carefully to one of the pears Elrond normally ate every morning informed him that they had gone out to check the progress of the saplings planted the previous month, as well as enjoy a swim at the base of the waterfall.

For the first time in several days, he allowed himself to smile slightly, despite the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt anxious about Mirkwood's reply; he had not received one and was slightly apprehensive. However, now that he had confirmed in his mind that it was all a misunderstanding, he felt optimistic that Legolas would return to his usual diplomatic self, apologize, and the problem would be quite finished.

He speared a pear with his fork and bit into it, relaxing, all thoughts of discord and strife dissolving from his mind as the nutrition entered his body.

-

"Head up!"

Elladan's cry caught Elrohir off-guard but the nimble elf still managed to jerk his body in a graceful motion and use his lightning-fast reflexes to catch the hard round ball speeding towards his head.

"I appreciate your warning," he called back dryly as he hurtled the object back at his brother. Elladan's hand shot up and caught the toy firmly in the center of his hand.

"Anytime," he called back smoothly, a smirk curving his golden lips downward. He lifted one well-muscled arm over his head to send their plaything arching through the air to Elladan once again, but the movement of a sudden dark figure in the corner of his eye caught his attention instead. He immediately dropped the ball and fell into a crouch, eyes narrowing.

Elrohir instantly caught on to Elladan's sudden tension and responded in kind, moving towards his weapons.

"What do you see?" he inquired in a breath, hissed words too low for any but his twin to perceive.

Elladan held a slender finger to his lips, watching the woods carefully, before straightening slowly.

"I saw a shape unlike that of an elf or deer," he said flatly, and Elrohir understood what he meant immediately. The only figures that ought to be observed in the woods this close to the heart of Imladris ought to be elven or beast. While human seekers of refuge were not uncommon in the elven sanctuary, the rule was that they were to come to Elrond straight away, not be skulking about in the woods as this figure appeared to be.

For a moment there was deathly silence, as the Elladan's eyes sought the figure again and did not find it. Then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, a slight dark shadow moved. Elladan was troubled; the figure had blended in perfectly and had not been visible to the twin excet upon movement. This should not have been the case; the elf should have been able to observe the person—presumably human—regardless of movement.

"Quickly, it flees," he hissed and without a second's hesitation both of them snatched up their weapons and pursued the flighty creature.

They were quickly able to observe that the object of their pursuit was human; slightly stockier than an elf and certainly not as light-footed. However, it was extremely docile, and when Elrohir spared a glance at his brother's face he could tell that the unexpected agility was disturbing to his twin as well.

"Take the left. We can corral him to our middle til we reach the cliffs." The muttered words came from the corner of Elladan's mouth as he ran. "I'll take the right and we can both cover middle."

Elrohir nodded jerkily and in one fluid motion had broken pace with his brother and was racing to the man's left. The human seemed to notice and steered himself to the right; Elladan closed in on him and he steered back to the middle. As the three ran, they formed something like an upside-down V, with the human forming the point and the twins the other points. The elves were gaining on their pursuit, though he did have inhuman speed and endurance as well as an early start on them.

However, their untiring bodies accompanied by their superior knowledge of the landscape eventually brought them victory, as Elladan's plan succeeded and their prey was driven against the cliffs. He was cornered and the only place left for him to run was over the steep rocks, surely a suicidal jump.

That seemed entirely too easy. It was almost like the man knew where they were corraling him…

"Drop your weapons!" Elrohir shouted as the man stopped, his back to them, looking around and realizing he had nowhere to go.

Their hooded quarry let fall his knives and slowly raised his hands. Then, to both twins' amazement and suspicion, a deep rumbling sound emitted from the human and his entire body began to shake as laughter erupted.

"A good chase…" the mortal announced, a smile lighting his words though they could not see his face.

His voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"Show your face," Elladan demanded roughly, not relaxing his guard at all regardless of the apparent camadaerie suddenly demonstrated by the total stranger.

Another deep burst of laughter made Elrohir take a step forward, clearly threatening to use force if their commands were not met with immediate cooperation.

"Oh, but I am hurt…"

The man's voice grew almost sorrowful.

"You mean to say that you do not recognize my voice? My own…my brothers?"

Both twins froze mid-step, stock still.

For a moment, all the forest was silent and not so much as the twittering of birds was comprehended in either elvish mind. Even the defeaning roar of the rapids below seemed silent as a tomb. Both elves' rotated ever so slightly to stare each other in the eye, disbelieving.

Elladan spoke first, and his words were suspicious, bordering on complete and total distrust, tinged with undisguisable hope…

"Estel?"

Under his hood, Taros Acosta smiled.


	3. Sun Setting

Estel kept his hood on.

Why?

"If you are in the company of friends, remove your hood…brother." Elladan tried to keep his voice friendly and positive, though he could not help the warning, suspicious edge that came to his tone.

The human paused. Elladan tensed but relaxed again when the man reached up and agreeably began to remove the cloth from his face.

Everything was fine.

Then in a split second, something shifted in the air and both elves knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Instead of drawing back the hood from his face, the alleged Ranger instead reached back inside the cloth and withdrew something from a hidden pouch within. In the blink of an eye, he had flung it at the elves with clear intentions of harm.

Elladan and Elrohir had no problem being quick enough to detect such attacks; however, their reactions differed and resulted in almost fatal consequences.

Elladan instantly crouched and attempted to roll out of the way. Elrohir, however, had been standing slightly behind his brother and his reaction was to try to grab the other and force him out of the way. This resulted disastrously; Elladan's roll, otherwise effective, was hindered by Elrohir's attempted save and the older twin bit his lip as he clearly felt his ankle twist hard beneath him. Elrohir, meanwhile, had heroically forced himself directly into the path of the human's attack, and now found himself confronting a faceful of some strange kind of powder and a tiny whirling, spinning blade of steel.

"Argh—"

He brought an arm up and deflected it from his face, but the new angle sent it spiraling downward to instead slash across his collarbone. An acute, flaming pain flared up across his chest and a similar pain in his forearm where he'd deflected the blade. He gasped and fell to his knees, the world swimming before him. Blearily, he looked up at the human before him. What was going on? Barely had the spinning metal torn through his skin and yet the pain and dizziness he was experiencing was equal to as if he had lost a gallon of blood.

"Elrohir—"

Elladan leapt up but it was too late. Before the elder twin had even moved, the human had already leapt to Elrohir and now held a knife to the younger's throat. Sometime that Elladan had not noticed the human had also thrust a hand into another pocket and tossed another handful of the powder that had debilitated Elrohir so easily into the air near Elladan's face. A second later Elladan too was coughing and struggling with blurred vision; he leaned on a nearby tree and shut his eyes and tried to force himself not to breathe so as not to encounter any more of the toxin, but it was impossible. His lungs violently rejected any air containing the substance, forcing him to cough out, and consequently causing him to draw in yet more of the tainted air.

His vision cleared momentarily and he straightened quickly but was careful not to move—the human still had his blade pressed against his twin's throat. Something seemed quite…odd…about everything now, but he could see and breathe and smell and hear as adequately as he had been able to before so he shrugged it off and gave it no more thought.

"A wise man would not toy with us," Elladan said in a low tone. He remained still at a distance for fear the human's hand might "slip" should he get close, but it was necessary this fool know exactly what dangerous prey he tried to keep.

"Quiet," the man ordered, jerking his blade slightly against Elrohir's neck for emphasis.

"My brother is right," Elrohir countered defiantly. He remained perfectly still in his captive position but his jaw was set angrily and his eyes flashed.

"You may have me at your mercy now, and even choose to take my life this instant, but you should know that our father is one of the most powerful beings in Arda, and he will not take lightly the captivity or murder of one of his sons," he continued threateningly, and Elladan winced. Releasing knowledge of their patriarch to a strange, hostile man was not a wise decision, in the elder twin's opinion.

The human was silent for a moment, and, still hooded, naught could be seen of his face other than the thoughtful pursing of the lips. Elladan held his breath; perhaps threatening the human with dark promises of powerful retribution would be enough to cause him to rethink his plan, whatever it might be. Momentarily however the lips drew back in a wide, sneering laugh as a deep, dark laugh escaped his throat. The human dramatically threw off his hood and finally allowed the two to gaze upon his face fully.

"I know who your sire is…for is he not mine as well?"

Elladan's jaw nearly hit the dense forest floor, and from Elrohir's lips came a soft hiss of anger and surprise.

"Do my eyes decieve me?" Elladan murmured as a sudden wave of nausea overwhelmed him.

"Do not be so hasty as to assume the appearance of this man speaks truth," Elrohir muttered urgently. His eyes flicked briefly upward at his captor and then to his brother.

"Prove yourself, human," Elladan commanded. He looked at the man's face closely, his build, his demeanor. Nothing about this was right.

"You are not Estel," he said in a low tone. "Your face is not his. Your manner is foreign to his. And our brother would _never _betray us."

The human's face hardened. He ignored Elladan's demands, instead producing a tiny bottle from within his cloak which he tossed to Elladan.

"Drink," he ordered shortly.

"Only a fool takes drink from the hand of his enemy," Elladan retorted flatly, unhesitatingly dropping it to the ground.

"And only a fool would refuse upon threat of his fellow's life," the man stated coldly. He drew the tip of the blade right up against Elrohir's pointed ear, dark promise looming in his eyes.

Elladan did not hesitate. He scooped up the bottle, uncorked it and let it burn its way down his throat in a single gulp. He did not know undoubtedly whether the human would let Elrohir live but he would not dare risk his brother's blood on his own account regardless.

The effect of the potion was instant. Within seconds, Elladan was on his knees, coughing, his vision swimming, a red haze covering everything he saw. He saw Elrohir's lips form his name in a shout of concern but the words did not penetrate his skull. He saw his brother struggle with his captor, only to be struck upon the head and knocked unconscious. Vaguely he thought this should concern him but he felt helpless to do anything, even accomplish as minute a task as express anxiety for the well-being of his kin.

The face of the man who called himself their brother blurred, and then sharpened suddenly. Elladan had gone deaf; he could not comprehend the whistling of the wind in the trees, nor the carefree chirping of birds unaffected by the plight of the elven brothers in their midst. He had not been able to hear Elrohir's shout of anger, nor could he sense the other's breathing, though he could see the other's chest rising and falling steadily.

Then, suddenly, the man who was not his brother was looming above him, grasping his chin, forcing their eyes together. And then there was a voice, he could hear, although whether the voice was in his head or could be heard by nature too Elladan could not know.

"Who are you?" Elladan forced out. The words were slurred and required monumental effort, it seemed, but they came.

"Do you not know?" the man's words were harsh; it felt like Elladan's head was being beat against a harsh granite wall to hear them.

"Estel…"

The word flopped off of Elladan's tongue unbidden.

He clenched his teeth suddenly.

"No," he whispered. "I know my brother. His eyes do not hold the malice I see in yours. Get you gone, dog!"

The man's face paled in anger. He whipped off one of his thick leather gloves and struck the elf hard across the face with it, snapping his head around.

"Perhaps you can be persuaded otherwise, brother…" he muttered. A tiny silver blade appeared in his hand and before Elladan had time to blink there was a gash across his arm. Blood spilled everywhere; the blade his sliced directly across the primary vein of his left arm.

Now the human held some foliage in his hand and was rolling it between his fingers, wetted with saliva.

"Effective only if forced directly into the bloodstream," the imposted murmured. He smeared the blood away from the wound and carefully pressed his weed into it, pinching the skin over the top of it to coerce as much of it into the wound as possible.

Elladan gasped; the pain was excruciating and spreading rapidly to every part of his body. He gazed blearily up into the face of the man who was not Estel, and the wicked sneer was his last sight before he slipped into darkness.

"I wish you pleasant dreams," hissed the man, leering. "When you awake, you _will _know me as your brother."

-

Elladan could not sense time.

He slipped in and out of a hellish world of dream that seemed to his unconscious mind to sometimes cover the span of an Age.

Occasionally he would wake. A throbbing, aching pain in his arm—he knew not its origin—convinced him of the reality of his consciousness.

There was a figure tied to a tree nearby. His face was close to what Elladan seemed to recall his own face appeared to be. The other was shouting something at him desperately every time he awoke, but he could not comprehend what he might be saying.

Once or twice, when the other spoke, there was another figure who would come over to him, strike him viciously across the face and then the similar-faced one would fall silent. Usually, though, Elladan's consciousness did not last this long and he would slip back into darkness long before he ever saw the cruel-faced one.

Sometimes he would awake to the cruel-faced one kneeling next to him and then the pain in his arm would be renewed once again, though he would immediately drop back off into unconsciousness as easily as a blind man wanders over a cliff.

And then, after what seemed to be dozens of times being woken and falling again, Elladan was accepted into the arms of darkness for solid hours. He was not woken by anything until nature chose to do so, and when she did, Elladan felt most peculiar.

He rose blearily to his feet. The pain in his arm was gone; indeed, there was no sign that blood had flowed from it in any recent time. He looked around; he remembered nothing.

Then, a rough hand seized his arm and yanked him harshly behind a tree, and Elladan found himself staring into the cold grey eyes of a man he remembered.

"Who am I?"

Memory.

Memories of a distant place, of meadows green and lush. Wildflowers flourishing, innumerable. Identical-faced elves chasing a small boy with piercing silver eyes like twin stars in a midnight sky through grassy hills.

They caught the boy, and scooped him up in their arms. His eyes looked into theirs, twinkling and innocent. The same eyes…

"Estel," whispered Elladan.

A wicked smile formed on Estel's face.

"You speak the truth. It is I," he answered with a sneer.

"He lies!"

Elladan's head whipped around. Elrohir was straining against his bonds with all his might, his eyes bulging out like a madman's.

"He is not our brother!" Elrohir cried furiously. "Elladan! Hearken unto me, brother!"

Instead, Elladan turned mechanically back to the human.

"No," he murmured. His empty eyes traced the man's face.

"He speaks truth," Elladan said, monotone. "Look, Elrohir, can you not see? It is he, this man is Estel."

"Return, and speak to Lord Elrond of this treachery," ordered Estel. It did not occur to Elladan to wonder why a traitor would want to inform others of his deceit.

"Elladan, no!" Elrohir was practically in tears. "Listen to me, brother! You have been drugged! You are not right in the mind! Fight him, Elladan! You can overcome him and this evil will be put to rest."

Elladan just stared at him, unbelieiving.

"Think about it," Elrohir implored. "If Estel betrayed us truly, why would he want Lord Elrond to gain knowledge of such? If he were truly Estel he would not make such a foolish mistake. Why would he send you to bear this news to our father? It is a folly, one which Estel would not commit!"

"I would not know his motives, Men are fools," Elladan stated flatly.

Elrohir tried a different tactic.

"Elladan, Estel is a good man. He would never betray us. He would not risk the destruction of his people merely to fulfill his own purposes!"

"Father said the ruin of Middle-Earth would hearken from Men," Elladan replied. "And so it has."

He turned away.

"This imposter poured toxin into your system!" Elrohir pleaded. "With my own eyes I saw it!"

Elladan paused. Perhaps Elrohir spoke truth. His long fingers brushed his skin, searching for any entrance a poison could have taken. But there was none. Such a claim as Elrohir made was impossible. And what did the younger know, anyway? Elladan was older; it was Elrohir who was frequently incorrect.

"Be not a fool, Elrohir," he finally said. He turned to look with eyes of hatred upon the one he believed to be his adopted brother.

"Your treason will claim your life," he threatened darkly. "It was utter foolishness alone which caused you to turn upon us. You will not live long enough to regret it."

The human smiled darkly. "We will see. However, if you desire to ever see Elrohir alive again you will carry news back to Lord Elrond of what has transpired."

"Challenge him, Elladan!" Elrohir pleaded one last time. "Do not leave me, brother—do not bear such tidings to Father as this, for they are lies! Why would a traitor ever desire for his betrayal to be revealed to his sire? Do not bear lies to our father…Elladan…"

"Silence," snapped Elladan. His heart ached for his brother, but if the younger would not see the truth, he would not waste time trying to convince him.

"I must…I do not abandon you now but will return swiftly and vengefully," he swore. "It is the only way, Elrohir! I must bear his message to save you."

"That isn't true," whispered Elrohir. "He poisoned you—I witnessed it!"

Elladan stared at him for a long moment.

Then he shook his head.

"No, it is you who are mistaken and perhaps poisoned. Perhaps to confuse both of us he drugged you, my brother."

He turned away. "I will return for you, Elrohir. Do not forget me."

A light rain pattered down, Elrohir's despairing shouts and pleas of melting away in the gloom, lost in the fog with no hope of sun, and Elladan ran home.

-

**Next chapter has already been started. I wouldn't mind a few reviews. :-)**


	4. Madness

Elrohir watched his brother's retreating back with clenched teeth whilst tears pouring down his cheeks, mingling with the rain.

For three days he had watched his captor slit open the vein on his twin's arm and methodically administer the poison, religiously doing so every four hours. Occasionally Elladan had awoken and each time Elrohir had tried to shout warnings to him, had tried to reveal the truth to his brother, but Elladan never heard. Elrohir's face was purple and black from all the times his human captor had backhanded him for attempting to talk to Elladan during the latter's brief periods of wakefulness.

Elrohir's head spun with confusion. Who was his man? Why did he call himself their brother? What purpose was served by revelation of his treachery to Elrond? If the man knew the name of Peredhil well enough to attack its heirs, surely he would also be familiar with the sire of that surname. Surely he would know that Lord Elrond's will was powerful and his ability to sway minds vast. Ignorance of the elf lord's power was fatal, if one was so foolish as to cross him. If need drove him, Elrond could easily call together all armies of Rivendell and Lothloríen—a force not lightly reckoned with. Individually, each single elf of either domain was a skilled, deadly warrior, fully capable of both sword and bow, and entirely able to nimbly navigate nearly any terrain he should encounter. A regiment of such warriors possessed vast abilities to fight its way into victory, and an entire army was a force Sauron himself would fear. Of Lothlorien the same could be proclaimed—and thus, to imagine the two powers combined would be to imagine unthinkable strength and almost certain defeat in battle. This man was a fool if he believed himself clever enough to dodge such an outcome, for if there was anything on Middle-Earth that could raise Lord Elrond's ire, it would be to threaten one of his children. Moreover, regardless of Elrond's affection for his offspring—which in and of itself was a force unspeakably strong—they were his heirs, elven royalty themselves, and kin of many of the most powerful elves in Arda. Even if Elrond chose never to look upon his sons except in cold-hearted hatred, they were elf princes and a royal prize worth the lives it might take to redeem them should harm befall them. And, of course, Elrond loved them with more strength than all the forces of Mordor combined; therefore doubling the potential lethality with which he would strike should any fool attempt to harm them. All in all, Elrohir could not comprehend for the life of him why this human was demonstrating such utter stupidity in his choices.

He communicated as much to the human—whatever his true name was—who was quick to demonstrate his disapproval of Elrohir's opinion, and the elf felt the harsh sting of the leather glove across his face yet again. His eyes watered and he bit his lip; such abuse was becoming common but it did not sting less for all the encounters he had endured.

"You would do well to adopt the mindset of your brother," he advised mildly. "Do not attempt to fathom the purposes of Men."

"You are no great fool to have ensnared me thus," Elrohir snapped back. "And I am no fool – no simpleton could have accomplished what you have so far. Surely you do not expect me to believe your purposes simple, nor underestimate your means of achieving them."

His captor's lips parted in reply, but a sudden snapping of twigs in the brush caused him to stop and listen tensely. His face relaxed and his expression turned to one of annoyance as a camouflage-clad hunter stepped from the foliage and bowed low to him.

"The elf has passed beyond my sight, my lord Taros," he panted, still bent over at the waist. "He passed the borders of the elf land, and I dared not follow any further."

"I am surprised you did not lead every warrior in their boundary to our location with the obscene racket you brought with you," Taros said irritably.

More clamour from the thicket occurred and Taros looked ready to shoot those responsible on the spot. When two more hunters emerged, Taros stormed angrily over to them, grabbing a fistful of their cloaks with each fist and giving them a glare so fierce the hunters seemed to shrink in their very clothing.

"Do you wish to bring every elf warrior within a hundred miles down upon our heads?" he hissed. "Have you learned nothing of subtly in your years of training, or were you too preoccupied with your useless families to pay even the slightest attentions to it?!"

Families? Elrohir's ears perked up as the hunter spoke back defensively.

"Don't bring our families into this, Acosta," he said in a low tone. "We may be your servants now but soon our debt to you will be paid and you will threaten us no longer."

"Fool." Taros released them with a look of disgust. "We'll see about that."

He stepped back and indicated to Elrohir.

"Until then, Sarachin, I expect your full obedience and cooperation and as such, get this elf up and bound before your clumsiness brings a regiment of elves down on our heads…"

"As you wish," Sarachin replied, though Elrohir perceived deep sarcasm beneath the purported docility, and the hunter's bow seemed more a mockery than a sign of respect.

If Taros noticed this, he did not comment or even appear to notice. Sarachin turned away, rolled his eyes with disgust and moved his attention to the bound elf watching him intently.

"What has caught your interest, elf?" he said softly. He slit the ropes holding Elrohir to the tree but slammed him into it half a second later so the elf had no opportunity to fight back. The burly man held him fast against the tree as he re-bound his wrists firmly behind his back.

"Your apparent subservience is betrayed by your manner," Elrohir replied, breath slightly hitched with the compression he experienced from his position between man and tree.

"It is no secret that I despise that man and his policies," replied Sarachin flatly. He finished the knots and Elrohir pulled at them slightly, just to check. Unfortunately, Sarachin seemed to be quite the capable knot-tier, and the elf found to his disappointment that his bonds were quite secure.

Elrohir hesitated, but Sarachin seemed to sense what he was about to suggest and stopped him.

"But neither do I have a love of elves," he said shortly. He yanked on Elrohir's bonds to emphasize. "So don't get any ideas in your pretty head."

Elrohir pursed his lips. The human was unusually perceptive for a member of the race of Men. He inclined his head towards Sarachin ever so slightly to mark his compliance with the man's words and allowed him to march his prisoner over to where Taros Acosta stood, tapping his foot impatiently.

"And I thought Mordor would freeze over before you got here." The cool tone of voice was also disgusted.

Sarachin replied with an equally cool glare, before shoving the bound Elrohir towards Taros, hefting his pack onto his back and staring quite unblinkingly at Taros, waiting for orders.

Taros handed off Elrohir's bonds to his huge manservant, who, Elrohir had not seen before, and who indeed seemed to have just materialized out of thin air. The human was so huge he seemed capable of lifting Elrohir entirely off his feet and carrying him under his arm like a parcel, if he was want to. Elrohir fervently hoped such an urge would never take him, as the giant man's beefy arms were seemed a hardly comfortable belt around his waist.

"Come." The tone of Taros's command brooked no room for argument. "Tonight we will feast on our own territory!" His eyes wandered from man to man in his service, and his lip curled with contempt. "If you slugs ever get a move on…come on!"

He spat in their direction, made a swift motion in the direction of the surrounding woods, and set off without a second glance back.

"One day, dog, I'll have your throat," swore a man beside Sarachin in an angry mutter. Taros did not hear; Elrohir was capable of perception thanks only to his elvish senses.

Then, suddenly, the giant holding Elrohir decided the elf was walking too slowly, slammed his fist against the Firstborn's head, and swung the elf over his shoulder. Elrohir had no time to register the unforeseen blow, and seconds later his world was as black as the darkest pit of hell.

-

"A fortnight has passed and yet the Lord of Imladris has yet to acknowledge his receipt of Mirkwood's…tidings."

The flat tone of Legolas's voice clearly belied his displeasure.

Aráto said nothing, only dipped his head in silent admission of the king's words. 'Tidings' were hardly an accurate description of Legolas's death threats toward the fellow elven region, in the opinion of the chief of guards, but recently Legolas had taken to throwing his servants in prison for lesser crimes than voicing an opinion, so Aráto kept quiet.

Legolas got up and strode around his palace room like a tiger waiting to be released; a beautiful, magnificent creature full of deadly intent and ability.

"Elrond regards himself as mighty indeed if he believes he may ignore the express request for communication from an equal." Legolas stopped pacing and faced Aráto.

"I think the time has come for a more direct approach," he announced. He cocked his head to the side, thinking.

"A detailed update on the situation of our armed forces in their entirety, if you please, Lord Aráto. Delivered no later than nightfall to my personal chambers."

With that, Legolas turned heel and walked briskly out of the throne room.

Aráto stared after him. Millenia of training allowed for no emotion to show, but beneath the marble surface of his beautiful elven face, a knot of anxiety began to twist itself within his stomach. After Legolas had announced his unbelievable plan to exact revenge from those he felt responsible for Thranduil's death, Aráto had known this order would not be long in the making, and had been dreading its coming. He would do everything in his power to buy Imladris more time, to put off the foolish and immature plan which the revenge-blinded Legolas was wrathfully insisting upon executing, but knew his power was limited. Legolas was behaving like a small, stubborn child who refuses to cease screaming until he is satisfied. Except unlike a small child whose mother can subdue him with a firm word and a gentle slap on the wrist, Legolas was the king of Mirkwood and was actually quite capable of getting what he wanted, regardless of its lunacy.

Aráto strode from the palace room and shut the heavy oak doors behind him. He passed through the great halls of the palace and down a darker, narrow corridor, leading to the dungeons. When he reached the end, the passage had grown very narrow and there was only a thick wooden door with a keyhole in it, for entrance to the dungeons. Two elves stood guard in front of it.

Slightly before he reached the guards Aráto paused and frowned. There were usually no apparent guards at the entrance; this place was the heart of the kingdom and more secure than anywhere else. Besides, they were not presently in a time of war and had very few captives, except for a few stray belligerent humans who were relatively harmless and whose crime was likely only trespassing, for which they would be released within a few weeks' time. The elves generally were a law-abiding people, and not prone to trivial squabbles amongst themselves, nor taken to indebtedness of such a great amount it could not be repaid and the debtor imprisoned. Therefore, the need for a large number of guards or tight security was relatively low, and since all elves were capable beings, they could certainly be put to use elsewhere. Aráto knew, however, that if any mischief were to be aroused that fully armed and capable elves would slink through the shadows as though they themselves were part of the illusion, and immediately quench any misbehavior.

It was a mystery to Aráto, therefore, why guards had been placed here. There was surely better use for them elsewhere.

He approached them with a slightly suspicious air.

"What do you mean by your presence here?" he asked stiffly, with a tone harsher than he was normally want to take with his guards. "Are not the dungeons scarce occupied, and are there no other tasks worthier of your attentions?"

"Ours is not to compare worthiness of tasks, only to obey," replied the one of higher rank with a slight inclination of his head to show respect. "And indeed, my lord, Mirkwood's cells claim more residents than has been seen in many a year."

The bubbling cocktail of anxiety and dread in Aráto's stomach increased tenfold.

"Show me," he ordered shortly. The higher ranking one, an elf named Telos, bowed, unlocked the door and lead the way into the corridor of cells.

The first passage contained cells in which criminals judged hardly dangerous were kept. Rare though they were, these typically included incidents such as unpaid debts, property disputes, petty theft and other minor rule-breaking. However, such things almost never happened, as the elves were generally law-abiders and mature beings, able to settle their differences without interference of a court. As such, these cells were almost never occupied; in fact, Aráto had seen them occupied by an elf only once in his entire position. Usually if there were occupants, they were humans or dwarves on trespassing charges, and the cells were empty again so quickly Aráto did not even see them, as such cases were handled by lesser ranking officials.

Now, however, these cells were nearly filled. Eight of the ten cells visible contained prisoners. Six of these were humans, the other two elves. All of the humans had been stripped of all clothes except breeches, and bore bloody welts across their arms, back and chest.

Aráto's eyes widened in shock and his breath caught. "Explain," he ordered, barely able to speak. Telos swallowed, clearly having the same knowledge about the irregularity of the situation. He began at the first cell to the right, containing a human huddled in the back, and moved up by row.

"Surname Fornsworth. Detained for trespassing on the king's lands, per the recent order." He moved on. "Surname Johns. Convicted of stealing foliage from the lands of Mirkwood. Surname Buckle. Charged with the killing of a deer across the border of Mirkwood."

"I didn't know," interjected the man imploringly. "I swear I had no knowledge of the edict, and what's more I was unaware I had crossed the border—"

"Enough," Aráto interrupted. He turned to Telos. "I suppose all of their stories are similar?"

Telos nodded silently and Aráto ground his teeth. The humans who lived close to Mirkwood's borders were poor folk, and Thranduil had often graciously allowed them to hunt a mile or two into Mirkwood's borders. As far as Aráto knew no official notice had been sent out giving the people there awareness of this. He fully believed in the innocence of the captives there.

"Please, sir," another man entreated. Aráto turned to him and the prisoner flinched as though expecting to be struck. "I have a family. I was never granted the chance to tell them where I was going. My wife just had a baby—" He bit his lip and turned away. "If I've done something wrong, sir, I'll gladly pay, but please, don't punish my family for my transgressions." He bowed his head and turned away again.

Aráto pursed his lips and indicated to Telos to make length with him.

"These stripes they bear?" he queried, pointing at the lash marks marring the skin of the prisoners. Beating a prisoner for a fairly innocuous crime was the way of the Enemy, not of the Mirkwood elves. Typically such punishments were reserved for true messengers of evil, not farmers who accidentally shot a deer not belonging to them.

At this Telos looked positively ashamed. "King Legolas, sir. We detained them at his orders, and also lashed them daily upon his word."

Aráto muttered a quiet elvish curse. He wasn't even finished yet. "The elves?" he continued his intense interrogation of the head of the prison.

"One a chef whose dish the king decided distasteful; the second a blacksmith whose familial obligations kept him from completing a request the king had made of him," Telos answered, and Aráto could see in his eyes the shame he felt admitting he had imprisoned fellow elves guilty of no true crime.

Aráto let loose a deep breath, trying to release some of his frustrations with it.

"What conditions have been set for their release?" he inquired, dreading to hear the answer.

"For the king's chef, the king has commanded a period of eight weeks. For the blacksmith, ten weeks and a vow at the end never to cause the king to wait again. For the humans…the king has issued that they are not to be released until they can make satisfactory restitution."

Telos looked solemnly at Aráto and indicated that they should speak in a small adjourning room, where the ears of the humans could not detect their words.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Aráto, but these men are poor. I have been to their village and they often have little more than a single chicken for their soup to provide sustenance for themselves and their families. I know not what restitution the king requires, but his temper has been great of late and his requirements cannot be small. Though they are of little concern to the kingdom, I do not consider them dangerous nor a threat to the kingdom. Indeed, sir, I can see little harm in merely releasing them. My thoughts are of my own mate—if I left her—"

At this Telos stepped back and bowed his head, afraid he had gone too far and voicing such a concern.

"Not so, friend," Aráto said softly. "Officials we may be but created with hearts we were also. You are right to say that these men have not wronged us and have indeed been wrongfully imprisoned."

He looked out into the hall of bruised and bleeding men.

"I cannot order their release if their imprisonment comes from the king," he said regretfully. "I can, however, make their stay here less miserable than the king has made it thus far."

He stepped out into the hall and made it clear the prisoners were to pay attention to him.

"It is not within my power to release you," he told them. "But I will do what I can to make your imprisonment more endurable."

He turned again to Telos, who had followed him out.

"Beatings will cease entirely," he said shortly. "Feed them regular meals of decent consisting of normal food, three times per day. Clothe them properly and do not deprive them or water whenever they require it."

He looked up and down the rows of men.

"Also, Telos, have some form of sustenance sent to each man's family, enough to last until the men are returned to them," he said quietly. "My friends—" he turned now to the elves. "I encourage you to bear your false imprisonment with honor; your reputations will be restored and your time compensated this I will personally ensure." He turned back to Telos. "Go about this with subtlety, as Lord Legolas with certainly be not pleased to receive such news. And if he does—lay the blame entirely upon my head."

Cries of thanks broke out from the men upon hearing this, and the elves too nodded in regal thanks, but Aráto quieted them immediately.

"Thank you for your appreciation, but it is imperative that the king does not receive news of this," he said grimly. "I know not what has befallen him; dark are his footsteps of late and darker still his thoughts."

He turned to leave the prison when Telos made the slightest of motions behind him indicating the guard's desire for attention. Only an elf would have caught the motion, and Aráto turned back.

"My lord, there is something else I believe you should see," the head of the prison said quietly. He indicated to another door through the small room, leading to the cells spread farther apart and used for more dangerous criminals.

Aráto followed him, the knot of apprehension growing greater still as Telos took a torch from the wall and lead him through the cells to the very end of the corridor, through the winding passages after that, until they reached the place where the cells were separated by stone walls so thick neither voice nor light could penetrate. These were solitary confinement cells, and at the bitter end of this corridor lay a single room for "special" prisoners—high-ranking officials of opposing armies, any kind of captured Mordor filth, or other legally-concerned occupant. The occupation alone of this cell heightened Aráto's trepidation as such cells were so rarely occupied he could not remember the last being who had been held within it. The Black Cell, it was called, as it was the darkest and farthest beneath ground of all the elvenking's dungeons.

Aráto drew near to the entrance and his breath left him in a whoosh of stunned air.

On the filthy straw-lined floor lay an elven youth of dark visage, chained to the walls by thick iron manacles around his wrists and ankles. He was stripped to the waist, with deep crimson stains causing the cloth of his breeches to cling to his body. Thick dark blood was beginning to clot over crusts of old wounds; the elf had clearly been beaten more than daily, and severely, as well.

Stunned and speechless, Aráto turned to Telos for an explanation.

"This is Lord Elrond's messenger," Telos said quietly, and once again what little breath Aráto still had left him, as though a giant beast had punched right through his gut. Never before had such brutality been displayed to an elf by another elf. It was unheard of, and a horrifying offense.

"The king wanted information out of him, and when he refused, citing loyalty to his liege, Lord Legolas chose to beat him twice daily. He carries out the beatings himself, and often the prisoner is unconscious by the time the king is through with him."

"Has the king lost his mind? Aráto hissed, staring in horrified anger at the bruised face of his distant kin. Such tactics were more fitting of a soulless orc from Mordor. Indeed, even the coarser of Men generally had more decency than to beat a fellow simply out of rage. And what information could Legolas possibly have wanted? Rivendell and Mirkwood were allies, after all; what could there be to know?

"Sometimes, my lord, the king beats him for no reason," Telos added, confirming Aráto's fears that the beatings were sometimes without justification.

"This must cease," Aráto rumbled. "Clean him up, Lord Telos. Nourish and clothe him. I am going to speak directly to the king—this madness must cease before the king's insanity brings down the wrath of the other elvendomes upon us, to our bitter end. If anyone questions you, cite my authority and if they threaten you with trouble, lay the blame again on me. I take full responsibility for assisting Elrond's messenger."

With this he snapped around and headed up, leaving Telos gratefully unlocking the cell and awakening the youth with better tidings than he had likely heard for quite some time.

It was time for Legolas to get a wake-up call.


End file.
